


Portal Ford Drabbles

by howtotrainyournana



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Portal Ford Drabbles, These were little ficlets for Forduary originally but I figured I'd post them on here as well, and pancakes, injuries, portal ford
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-09-27 13:39:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10023092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howtotrainyournana/pseuds/howtotrainyournana
Summary: A collection of reflection pieces on Ford's time spent in the Portal from Ford's point of view. Topics include sand, loneliness, people, and pancakes.





	1. Silence

The thing that wore on Ford the most while travelling on the other side of the portal was not the running, or the uncertainty, or the constant vigilance.

It was the oppressive, mind-breaking quiet. 

One would think that alien worlds teeming with life would also be teeming with sound. And to a degree, they were. Wind rattled through forests, streams and rivers rushed by, rain pelted down in musical sheets, flocks of winged creatures battered the air with their wings. Strange animals let out stranger calls, filling both day and night with shrieks and screams and singing. The stars sang in some worlds, and the darkness sang in others. 

No, it was not the quiet of the absence of nature, but the quiet of something else entirely. It was the quiet of the absence of intelligible speech – and the absence, therefore, of companions. It was the sound of loneliness that filled the spaces between the sounds of nature, and it was the sound of loneliness that wore on Ford heavier than the gun on his back. 

The world is very wide indeed when you walk it alone.


	2. Sand

Sand was an annoyance to Ford for many reasons.

Firstly, it gets _everywhere_. And that means _everywhere_. No matter how much a man tries to shake out his trenchcoat or brush off his shirt, no matter how many times he shakes out his boots and knocks them against a wall to get the cursed little grains out, _they remain_. It would almost seem like magic, or a curse, but Ford knows there’s a perfectly logical, scientific explanation for this specific property of sand. And that simply infuriates him even more. 

Secondly, it makes everything _dry_. Even damp sand, Ford found, wicks the moisture from his skin and lips leaves him parched. When water is a precious life-giving commodity, one learns to quickly detest anything that makes you lose it.

Thirdly, it doesn’t _go away_. Even months after trudging through the desert and two dimensions later, he was still finding little greyish pieces of sand in his scalp and eyebrows. Sure, he didn’t have access to a shower much of the time but he had bathed at _least_ twenty times since that particular desert world, and he had yet to travel through another desert or more sandy mountains or . . . or walk across another beach.

And that was the fourth reason. Sand reminded him of beaches, beaches reminded him of the ocean, the ocean reminded him of childhood, and childhood reminded him of Stan. And Stan, for better or ill, reminded him of _home_. He would pull a faded Polaroid out of his pocket when his thoughts wandered in that direction, careful not to run dirty, sandy fingers over the image of two smiling boys on a ship. The sand would try to wear away at the picture if it could, just as it wore away at everything else of Ford’s – his boots, his skin, his weapons, his spirit. 

The sand could have nearly anything else, but it did not get to claim that last little bit of home from him.


	3. Pancakes

Pancakes, Ford found, are a nearly universal constant for breakfast.

True, they differ wildly from dimension to dimension, but the concept remains surprisingly similar. A grain-like or starch-like plant or substance is ground up into a fine powder, which is then mixed with water, the ova of some avian creature, the lactation of a (usually bovine) creature, and then fried over heat in whatever oil is most common and easily accessible for food production. 

Ford had eaten some rather strange pancakes in his travels.

There was a dimension of frog-folk who made small bright blue and orange pancakes from large brown tubers that grew in the rainforest they lived in. They tasted salty and made the tongue go a bit numb, but were otherwise edible and nutritious. 

There was a dimension with green potato pancakes served with spicy sweet syrup. The syrup was like if someone had distilled an entire bushel of chili peppers in the vat of maple syrup and then added glitter to it. It was surprisingly invigorating, and Ford found the dish an excellent start to the day.

In one dimension purple, rubbery pancakes that glowed in the dark were all the rage. They tasted like old bubblegum to Ford, and he didn’t care for them. 

There were many, many more pancake variations: crispy golden-brown pancakes like the ones from earth, but which tasted inherently like lemons and cloves for no discernable reason; pancakes the size of Ford’s head that oozed bitter-smelling pink droplets when cut into; dull brown cakes that were thick and dry but that lasted for weeks without spoiling once cooked; pale, thin grey pancakes that were almost crepes, that were nearly tasteless but were served with some of the most delicious fruit Ford had ever tasted. Some of the pancakes he was served by friends in their own homes, bringing back warm faded memories from childhood; some he bought at restaurants or cafes; some he stole when desperate and hungry; some he made himself, pulling together the simple ingredients as best he could and trying not to burn them over an alien blue fire. 

But still, pancakes are pancakes, and the nourishment they provided was greatly appreciated whatever form it came in.


	4. Rain

Rain was different in every dimension. So was the sky. 

In one, he walked through a forest of pure white. Every fern and tree, every stump and sprig of flowers, every patch of moss and tuft of grass was a different dazzling shade of pale. In contrast, the sky above was a rich, roiling purple the color of nebulae and king’s robes. It was beautiful, of course, but it made his eyes ache with the contrast and the brightness. He was relieved when he moved on, though the image of a thunderstorm rolling through the sky and painting the white world in greys and yellows and violets would remain for a long time.

In another dimension he was caught out in the midst of a sudden downpour on the grey rocks of a mountainside. The rocks below his feet matched the color of the thick clouds above. When they opened up and let down the precipitation swelling inside them, Ford was more than a little shocked. The rain pouring down was so blue it burned your eyes (but thankfully not your skin, as he had no cover except the clothes on his back) and it was _everywhere_. The greyscale mountain was awash with color so vibrant Ford had no choice but to clench his eyes shut to stave off the stinging headache it induced. When the drops pelting him slowed and stopped minutes later, he opened his eyes to a world more breathtaking than any he had seen before. The grey mountains glistened every shade of blue imaginable, the rain mingling with the stone like fresh lacquer. 

In another dimension still, a lush green forest thick with moss and ferns and leaves blocked his view of the sky. He was tempted to climb one of the gnarled trunks up above the canopy to get a look but decided against it. It was more pressing to get through the forest to where he was headed rather than investigate, though the forest _was_ strange. He couldn’t put any of his six fingers on it, but he could almost feel the forest breathe around him like a living thing, somehow more alive and aware and intelligent than a forest ought to be. 

As he walked, he began picking up a sound coming from all around. It was nearly like breaking glass, but more inherently musical, like chimes or dripping water or – _what_ was that? Ford startled as a soft golden drop of _something_ dripped right in front of him. He bent down to examine it but it dissolved into the forest floor before he could get a better look. It didn’t matter. More and more of the drops fell from the branches above, the musical tinkling growing louder and sweeter as the ambient golden light in the forest increased with the sudden influx of golden droplets. With sudden clarity, he realized what he was seeing was rain made of light, making music as it fell through the trees. The light ran in rivulets down his hair and face and body, warm and damp and oddly comforting. Ford knew he should be concerned that he was being drenched in an unknown and potentially hazardous alien rain, but he somehow couldn’t bring himself to worry. Instead he raised his arms and face to the deluge, face relaxing and eyes falling closed. He would realize later that the light-rain had washed him clean of all his travel grime, even leaching the stains and stench from his clothing. When the shower ceased he continued on his way, heart and limbs lighter than before and mind more peaceful and content than it had been in a long time. 

Ford never did manage to see the sky in that dimension, but he had a feeling he never would have been able to see again if he did manage to get a look.


	5. Deserts

Deserts were probably Ford’s least favorite environment to travel through. 

They were unbearably hot in the daylight and numbingly cold in the nighttime. They tested the limits of his physical endurance with rapid temperature changes, parching lack of humidity, shifting or uneven ground, and lack of cover from the elements. There was nowhere to escape the biting winds or baking sunlight except inside layers of protective clothing and headgear – a pair of UV resistant goggles was one of the best things Ford had ever (stolen) acquired. Not only did they offer protection from the harsh glare of the sun (or suns, as was often the case), after a few choice modifications they allowed him adequate night vision as well. Travel during the colder periods of the day was much less strenuous than travel in the heat of it, and it was handy to be able to see the nocturnal predators that so often frequented the desert.

On the other hand, though, deserts were also where Ford learned to survive. It was desert folk that taught him how to make the nutrient supplements he now subsisted off of. It was the necessary evil of survival that gave him the hardness of heart to do what it took to survive; and it was the stubborn refusal to become anything less than good that kept him from becoming a monster and giving in to the temptations of selfishness. He had seen firsthand that survival was not synonymous with selfishness, and that though an extended hand may be oft burned one never extended receives no help in return. 

And deserts held beauty, in their own harsh manner. Wildflowers would blanket the earth to the horizon, blooming bright and vibrant against the dull grey or bright yellow or dust red. The singing of coyotes and dune-beasts to the stars at night held a haunting beauty that sent shivers through his very core. Dawn breaking across a sky so vast it made one feel as fragile as dust; sunsets setting the whole heavens ablaze with color; the thread of galaxies across the sky so filled with colors and stars that one seemed to be walking among them; these were the things that the desert held and shared only with those brave enough to walk it. 

Ford felt rather privileged to be one of them.


	6. RUN

_Run run run run run run run run JUMP run run run deep breath deep breath run run run run run run run run RUN!_

The mantra beat through Ford’s head in an ugly staccato, keeping time with his pounding heart and feet.

_Run run run run HOP run HOP run LEAP trip-TRIPPING shit stand stand stand stand stand run run rUN RUN FASTER!_

It was like this often, more often than he cared to admit. He had grown used to the feel of adrenaline coursing through his veins, the cold ache of heat down his arms and in his wrists and feet familiar as the tremors of panic that accompanied the sensation. He had grown used to frayed nerves and sweaty palms and ears fogged with fright. He had grown used to being afraid. 

_Run run run JUMP run run run run DUCK run DODGE run run run run run run run run run!_

After so many years in the Portal, Ford had grown lean and agile, no longer the soft callous youth he once was. He had fought tooth and nail against the evils in the universe (at times coming so close, _so close_ to becoming evil himself) and had won. He uprooted false regimes, toppled oppressive governments, overthrew centuries old institutions that propagated lies and deceit and cruelty. Ford had become an outlaw for more than just daring to go against Bill Cipher; he had become an outlaw by daring to go against all who sought to do harm to others in the Multiverse.

And as a lonely vagabond in the Multiverse, that was a very, very dangerous thing to do.

_Run run run run pain run pain run pain run PAIN run PAIN run PAIN shut up PAIN shut up PAIN shut UP KEEP RUNNING!_

An arm shot out of the darkness between two buildings as he ran past and pulled him inside before he could register what was happening. A feathery hand clamped over his mouth before he could utter a sound and a firm, many-handed grip held him still. The bounty hunters chasing him ran past without noticing their prey caught in the darkness in the arms of an unknown stranger. When they were gone, the hands released him and he spun on his captor, intent on doing anything but _going quietly_ despite the deep ache from the wound in his side. 

Six pairs of placid green eyes blinked back at him in the dark. The creature clicked rapidly with its mandibles and Ford’s universal translator translated the soft crackling language. 

“ _Do not be alarmed, Stanford Pines. I am not after your head. You have brought justice to this land, and we would be heartless fools to let you fall prey to those who seek you for ill._ ” 

Ford suddenly became aware of many more eyes blinking at him out of the darkness – all colors, blues and pinks and greens and bronzes most prevalent. A whole crowd of refugees from the latest cruel dynasty he had helped topple gazed back at his surprised face. The creature that had pulled him to safety gestured with one of its many arms for him to follow as it turned and sank deeper into shadow.

" _Come, Hero Pines. We shall assist you as you have assisted us._ ”

The mantra running through Ford’s head quieted as the threat of capture lifted off of his shoulders. The dangers of opposing evil were many, but the benefits were many more. And the people he saved and the kindness, goodness, and compassion they showed? Their value was far more than the price on his own head, that was for certain. Ford limped gladly after the creatures whom he had saved and who, in turn, had saved him. 

For once, the mantra in his head was silent.


	7. Lies

There were two things that Ford repeated to himself at all times. One was a hard thing to remind himself, the other was easy. 

First was that he could never go home. To do so would do more damage than could be justified for the sake of a single human life. He would be knowingly tearing a rift into the fabric of reality and letting Bill Cipher into the Third Dimension, an affair he could not in clean conscience allow to happen. Bill would bring about the end of the world and gain even more power, bringing another dimension to ruin just like the Nightmare Realm. No, he could never go home. 

This was the easy thing to remind himself, because it was true.

Second was that he was fine. This was the hard thing to remind himself, because it was hardly – if ever –true. Stanford Pines had not been fine for a long time, even disregarding Bill Cipher: he had not been fine during his first years in Gravity Falls when he isolated himself to pursue his dream; he had not been fine during his school years when he worked himself to exhaustion to please people who would never be satisfied; he had not been fine during his last years of high school, when the growing rift between himself and his brother had abruptly and irreparably shattered, taking his dreams with it; he had not been fine perhaps even as far back as childhood, when his abnormality brought ridicule from cruel ignorant children and pity and special treatment from misguided adults. 

No, even far, far before getting dumped into a different dimension by the folly of his own hands, Stanford Pines had not been _fine_. 

And yet he kept reminding himself of these two things, the truth and the lie, so that in time they might both become truth. That was how these things worked, was it not? Lie until what you want to be true becomes true. Lie until you can’t remember what’s a lie and what isn’t. Lie until you aren’t lying anymore.

He was fine, and he was never going home.

Ford would learn later (much, much later) that they were both lies.


	8. Mirrors

There was a planet, in one dimension, that was nothing but vast black sandy mountains breaking out of a perfectly calm sea. You would think that meant it held a stark kind of beauty, a cold lifeless austerity.

This could not be further from the truth.

The earth on this world was made of every shade of darkness, the hues barely discernible from each other at first glance, but the more you looked the more you saw. Ford thought briefly of corvidae feathers as the mountains shimmered subtly in the heat of the day. Some friendly locals had lent him a long, shallow-bottomed canoe to sail with, a long thin pole and a wide oar being the principle means of propelling the craft. 

The sea was shallow in most of the world, ranging from mere inches to several fathoms at most. There were places, though, that he had heard tell of in the hushed tales of the locals. Places far from where they were now, on the far side of the world where the sea stretched unbroken for half the earth. Of deep trenches in the bottom of the sea, dark things that held even darker creatures. Of those creatures, and the reasons the locals kept to their half of the world. Ford’s curiosity was piqued, but he knew it was rather unlikely that he would reach said mysterious depths before he left. Oh well. He would investigate what he could while he could.

The seafloor was made of the same dark sand, crossed with bright seaweed and kelp beds, with corals and anemones and sea fans, with shoals of fish of every size and shape and color imaginable. It was beautiful and vibrant, the colors only complemented and made brighter by their stark backdrop.

Ford spent the rest of the evening poling around the shallows and the shores, taking notes on the sea life and drinking in the tranquil quiet of the warm day. There were no land or sea predators to speak of in this area, so he made camp on the beach and set up his stargazing equipment the locals had lent him (they were quite technologically advanced, though they lived simply and humbly). As the sun set, the world came even more alive with color and celestial spectacles. 

Stars, millions upon millions upon billions of them, shone across the firmament and reflected back on themselves in the still sea below. An arching meteorite’s trail could be doubly followed, and the moon’s bright glory shone twofold. Ford could hardly breath for the splendor of it as his equipment lay forgotten at his feet. 

He sat, content to simply observe and absorb, for the better part of the night, until sleep pulled his eyes closed. Ford curled up on the soft black sand of a beach on a distant world underneath a sky of celestial glory and its twin in the sea before him. He slept well, that night.

He dreamed of a different set of twins, and of mirrors, and skies, and home.


	9. Another Glass Shard Beach

Beach glass is beautiful. It comes in all colors and shapes, smoothed and blunted by the gentle motions of the waves from something that draws blood into something safe. Something precious. Something worth having. 

Ford picked his way along the white sand and the brilliant blue water, admiring the myriad of colors showing through the waves and sand. There were hundreds of thousands of pieces of beach glass in this bay, in every conceivable color and shape and hue. Shards of pottery peeked through as well, patterns of long-lost art now only present in bits and pieces. In winter the snow and ice sealed the beach glass in place, so one could nearly ice-skate along the shoreline of frozen glass. For now, though, the day was warm, the sun was bright, and the sand and glass was pleasantly rough under his feet. He was alone on the beach, a day outing he had chosen to make on his own in between shifts on the docks. 

As Ford walked, he let his mind wander and muse, waxing poetic in his thoughts. 

_It is the nature of nature to smooth the edges, and in time all things are made smooth again. Even the shattered remains of things like this must too yield to time and tide and depth. Have you seen the sunrise from the edge of the water, as it catches the colors in the sand? It is the same as the sunset in its brilliance, without the sadness of the inevitability of night. And even in the moonlight the shore glistens still, the colors throwing back a strange cold light, as cold and as distant from the light and color of day as space itself._

Ford chuckled gently to himself at his own flowery thoughts, shaking his head. He was much more suited to analyzing things logically and scientifically with his intellect, rather than emotionally with his heart. He knew where his skills and talent lay, loathe though he be to admit it. Still, in quiet moments like this, in private, he allowed himself the indulgence of poetic words and sickly-sweet thoughts and overwrought metaphors. _Poetry is first and foremost for oneself, after all, so there’s no harm in it and no one need ever hear it_ , he thought. And it was nice to try to do beautiful things justice with words. 

Ford spent the rest of the day tucking small bright beautiful bits of beach glass into his pockets and arranging them in silly shapes in the sand, daring at points to recite some of his poetry aloud to the gulls and the waves and the sea-grass. And if some of those silly shapes made of beach glass were words well, who was really to know? The tide would take them before anyone would see them. Probably. He hoped. 

(It didn’t.)


	10. Dimension 52

_“Teach me your ways, oh you sad and lonely rocks. Teach me your truths, pillars of fire and of salt. Teach me your stories, oh barren fields and flooded plains. Teach me your strength, you untameable seas. Teach me, that I may learn. Teach me, so I may join you rightly.” -Author Unknown_

Ford was not a man of patience.

He was used to fighting for his answers, fighting for his spot, fighting for his right to _know_. He was used to struggling non-stop, used to putting off mundane things like sleeping or eating or bathing to continue working towards his goal. There was no _time_ to be patient. No _time_ to wait for a second opinion. No _time_ to waste on silly useless safety protocols. He was a man on a mission, and he would not be deterred. 

Which is why, sitting in an empty temple on a mountain top in a strange dimension full of peace, he felt so foreign. 

The surgery four days ago had been a difficult one (not that Ford would have known it at the time, being thoroughly unconscious, but he had a vague knowledge going in as to its dangers) and recovery, though quick, was not as quick as Ford would have liked. His fingers drummed on the stones beneath him as he uncrossed his legs and sighed, stretching forward and popping his spine and stiff shoulders gently. Meditating had been Jheselbraum’s idea, a time of reflection she said he needed and deserved after so long on the run. It also meant that he would be inactive and less likely to damage his healing wounds, but that was left unspoken. 

Ford sighed again, leaning forward until he was sprawled on the glimmering purple flagstones. The entire temple was hewn from stone of every color, softly blending into the mountainside around them and the pale clouds that hung constantly about the peak. Time rolled on sluggishly, and Ford let his mind wander. It chose to contemplate the activity he was currently engaged in. 

Mediating was a good thing for him, he would admit. It allowed him to refocus on his purpose and goal - _to defeat Bill and see an end to his reign of terror_ \- and it allowed him peaceful breathing space to really contemplate his options of achieving his goal. It also gave him time to reflect on some of the wonders of the past dimensions he had visited, and the friends and acquaintances and discoveries he had made along the way. 

Unfortunately, the time and space to wander around his own mind also allowed him to ruminate on the more unsavory things in his past. He reflected on the photo in his pocket and the whispers of promises and connections long dead. He reflected on old wars and scars and the stench of battle on distant worlds. He reflected on sleepless nights in college and in the Portal and in the Shack and the reasons for each. He reflected on the past, in the hopes of better seeing the future.

Jheselbraum brought him hot tea and wafers made with honey, and still Ford meditated, his dissatisfaction with the endeavor finally easing away as he dove deeper into his inner contemplation and the relaxation it effected on his person. 

Jheselbraum smiled, and left him to it.


	11. Ocean Fog

Ocean fog was a curious thing.  
  
It rolled in from off the deep in a great white wall, turning day into night and shrouding everything in cool mist. It made navigation nigh impossible, and it turned a world ablaze with life into one of quiet save for waves.  
  
It was fascinating, and terribly reminiscent of home.  
  
Stanford had, in his several years in Gravity Falls, taken the time to do a bit of travelling for ‘vacation’. He took several trips to the Oregon Coast, visiting old lighthouses and quiet beaches and sleepy towns. The trips were more like extended field research missions than real vacations, but he felt the change of pace necessitated a change in terminology. Besides, wasn’t a vacation simply a break from the norm, using the time to enjoy an activity or place not normally seen or indulged in? Vacations were necessary for continued good work – taking the time to work on a completely different project often afforded a change in perspective and a boost in creative ingenuity. That was the reasoning he had used on himself to justify the trips, and on Fiddleford to justify time away from the Portal.  
  
Stanford breathed deeply – the wet salt air coated his lungs, just a touch under warm and full of brine and life. The scent of the sea grass and cooling sand, the rustle of the evergreens and the constant roar of the surf, the quiet lonely calls of the seabirds as their shadows passed over his footprints behind him on the beach – all of these things faded as the fog rolled in. Nothing disappeared, of course – things hidden do not cease to be (a fact he knew all too well), but they were muted. Distant. Comfortable.  
  
He felt alone and private.  
  
For once in his time between dimensions, his mind did not race. No thoughts of daring escapes or excruciating trials or sudden loss swamped his mind. The cool sea breeze blew, and the damp serenity of the fog seeped into his mind. It was peaceful. Just the right thing for a vacation.  
  
Stanford walked for hours in the mist, alone but not lonely.


End file.
